>v«aHMmaaHapi«iM 


PHILIP  FRENEAU 


THE  HUGUENOT  PATRIOT-POET  OF  THE 
REVOLUTION,  AND  HIS  POETRY 


BV 

EDWARD  F.  DE  LANCEY 


Reprinted  from  the  Proceedings  of  the  Huguenot  Society  of  America 

Vol.  II,,  No.  a 


1891 


^.  wV 


C-fi-^ 


PHILIP    FRENEAU 


THE  HUGUENOT  PATRIOT-POET  OP  THE 
^t  REVOLUTION,  AND  HIS  POETRY 


BV 

EDWARD    F.   DE   LAxXCEY 


Reprinti-i!  from  the  ProceeiHii^s  of  tlw  Ifui^^uenot  Society  of  America 

roi.  //.,  Xo.  2 


t     •  .    •        • ,     • 


1 89 1 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Aster  Place,  New  York 


•      •     •  • 


:!: 


PHILIP    FRENEAU,    THE     HUGUENOT     PATRIOT 
POET   OF   THE   REVOLUTION,   AND 
HIS   POETRY. 

By  Edward  F.  de  Lancky. 

At  intervals  somewhat  rare,  the  coasts  of  the  Middle  States 
of  America  have,  from  the  earliest  settlement  of  the  country, 
been  visited  by  winter  storms  of  terrific  violence.  Beginning 
with  a  warm  mist  or  gentle  rain,  gradually  turning  to  sleet 
under  a  sharp  northeast  wind,  which  in  a  few  hours  becomes 
an  intensely  cold  boreal  hurricane,  accompanied  by  falling 
ffiasses  of  whirling  snow,  benumbing  all  living  creatures,  cover- 
ing deep  the  face  of  nature  and  blocking  up  all  avenues  of 
travel,  these  storms  temporarily  paralyze  man  and  all  his  oc- 
cupations and  duties. 

Nearly  threescore  years  ago,  just  before  Christmas,  one  of 
these  tempests,  now  known  by  the  somewhat  odd  name  of 
*f  blizzards,"  struck  the  seaboard  of  New  York  and  New 
Jersey,  raging  with  greater  violence  in  the  latter,  especially 
in  the  county  of  Monmouth. 

I  On  the  evening  of  the  eighteenth  day  of  December,  1832, 
an  elderly  gentleman  of  medium  stature  but  marked  mien,  not 
dreaming  of  the  approaching  severity  of  the  storm,  left  the 
house  of  friends  in  the  town  of  Freehold,  to  walk  to  his  own 
home  in  the  outskirts  of  that  historic  village. 

But  that  home,  where  he  had  dwelt  in  quiet  retirement  for 
many  years,  he  never  reached.  Blinded  and  benumbed  by  the 
savage  storm  which  overtook  him,  he  lost  his  strength  and  his 
way.  Sinking  senseless  into  the  snow,  the  circling  swirls  of 
which  formed  his  winding  sheet,  and  the  tempest's  deep  roar 
his  requiem,  the  spirit  of  Philip  Freneau  passed  from  earth. 

Such  was  the  tragic  end  of  one  of  the  most  original  and 


gifted  poets  that  America  up  to  his  day,  and  I  may  say  to 
ours,  has  ever  produced.  Born  in  Frankfort  Street  in  New 
York,  in  1752,  and  in  that  city  receiving  his  school  education, 
he  graduated  from  Nassau  Hail,  now  Princeton  College,  New 
Jersey,  in  1771,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  two  of  his  classmates 
being  the  celebrated  Hugh  Henry  Brackenridge,  and  James 
Madison,  afterward  the  fourth  President  of  the  United  States. 

Collegian,  law  student,  newspaper  writer,  sailor,  politician, 
sea  captain,  government  translator  of  modern  languages  in  the 
State  Department,  newspaper  owner,  editor,  and  jjublisher,  in 
New  York,  Pennsylvania,  and  New  Jersey,  afterward  and  for 
many  years  a  sea  captain  again,  and  merchant,  and  later  a 
retired  gentleman  and  farmer,  Philip  Freneau  was  always  a  poet 
throughout  every  phase  of  this  singularly  varied  career.  p>om 
his  boyhood  to  his  death  he  was  a  votary  of  the  poetic  muse. 

A  Frenchman  and  a  Huguenot  on  both  sides  of  the  house, 
the  great  quickness  and  brilliancy  of  his  mind  attested  the  for- 
mer, while  the  firmness  of  his  belief  in  his  opinions  proved  the 
latter.  Andre  Fresneau  (the  "  s  "  was  dropped  from  the  soell- 
ing  of  the  name  after  the  middle  of  the  last  century),  his  grand- 
father, one  of  the  early  Huguenots  in  New  York,  and  a  mer- 
chant, married  Marie  Morin  in  that  city,  a  daughter  of  Pierre 
Morin,  or  Morine,  as  sometimes  spelled,  whose  name  appears 
in  the  records  of  the  "  Eglise  du  St.  Esprit,"  in  New  York,  as 
the  head  of  one  of  the  families  of  that  church  in  1709.  And 
his  written  name  can  be  seen  in  the  fac-simile  of  the  signatures 
of  the  heads  of  those  families,  in  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Col- 
lections" of  this  Huguenot  Society  of  America.  This  Pierre 
Morin  was  also  the  maternal  grandfather  of  John  Morin  Scott, 
the  noted  Whig  lawyer  and  Revolutionary  general.  Thus 
Freneau  and  he  were  both  cotemporaries  and  first  cousins. 
The  two  great-grandsons  of  the  latter  were  my  own  intimate 
friends  and  schoolmates  in  my  boyhood  in  Philadelphia,  one 
of  whom  still  resides  in  that  city.  Andre  Fresneau  and  Marie 
Morin  had  two  sons,  Andre  and  Pierre.  The  latter  was  the 
father  of  the  poet,  who  was  born  on  the  2nd  of  January, 
1752.  The  two  brothers  were  wine  merchants  in  New  York, 
and  successful  ones.     Pierre  bought  a  large  farm   in   Mount 


I 


5 

]plcasant,  Monmouth  County,  New  Jersey,  where  much  of  the 
j^oct's  early  youtli  was  passed  ;  and  on  a  portion  of  it  which 
descended  to  him  lie  spent  his  latter  days.  His  grandparents 
fest  in  Trinity  Churchyard  in  this  city,  but  the  later  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  and  he  himself,  sleep  beneath  the  green 
turf  of  their  own  burial  place  at  Mount  Pleasant. 
;  riiilip  Freneau  married,  about  1790.  Eleanor  Forman, 
daughter  of  Samuel  Forman,  of  Middletown  Point,  of  that 
Well-known  New  Jersey  family  ;  but  four  daughters  only  sur- 
vived him.  He  left  no  son  to  bear  his  name.  Although  he  be- 
longed to  the  third  generation  of  his  family  in  America,  P"re- 
Ijcau  was  as  thorough  a  Frenchman  as  if  he  had  been  born 
under  the  sunny  skies  of  Provence  on  the  banks  of  the  blue- 
flow  ing  Rhone,  or  had  drawn  his  first  breath  amid  the  vine- 
clad  hills  of  the  Bordelais,  or  beneath  the  lofty  towers  of  an 
ancient  chateau  of  historic  Normandy, 

Active,  brilliant,  courageous,  clear-headed,  quick-witted, 
full  of  imagination  and  fancy;  very  polite  in  manner,  and  as 
ready  to  return  a  blow  with  the  pen  as  with  the  sword,  the 
former  as  sharp  as  the  latter;  he  was  a  typical  Frenchman,  and 
as  brave  as  he  was  sparkling. 

There  is  a  venerable  maxim,  which  says,  "  Poetry  is  like 
claret,  one  enjoys  it  only  when  it  is  very  new  or  when  it  is  very 
olti."  As  Freneau  himself  wrote  :  "  Happy  with  wine  we  may 
indulge  an  hour,"  perhaps  we  with  his  verse  may  enjoy  an 
hour,  for  the  age  of  much  of  it  exceeds  a  hundred  years. 

One  of  my  relatives  has  still  in  his  possession  some  famous 

'wine  known  in  the  family  as  the  "  Resurrection  Madeira,"  from 

[the  fact  that  an  ancestor  in   1776  buried  a  quantity  of  it  on 

lis  estate  in  Westchester  County,  and  thus  preserved  it  from 

the  attentions  of  the  "Skinners,"  "Cowboys,"  "Committees," 

md  other  "  Sons  of  the  American  Revolution."    For  the  fervid 

[patriotism  of  these  noted  heroes  being  as  pure  as  their  pockets 

[and  stomachs  were  empty,  they  were  early  marked  by  their 

[superior  knowledge  and  taste  in  all  articles,  liquid   and  solid, 

1  which  belonged  to  their  neighbors. 

I'reneau  was  a  cotemporary  of  this  prudent  ancestor,  and 
his  poetry  and  the  latter's  wine,  both  of  the  same  period,  hav- 


ing  by  reason  of  their  Inherently  fine  qualities  reached  our  day, 
I  venture  to  offer  you  some  of  t!:c  former,  believing  that  it; 
Revolutionary  bouquet  and  flavor  will  be  appreciated  as  hii;hly 
now,  as  those  of  the  Madeira  would  have  been  then,  by  the  (ii> 
tinguished  gentlemen  and  heroes  just  mentioned,  liad  tky 
been  lucky  enough  to  discover  it. 

In  the  old  days  the  usual  rule  at  feasts  was,  "three  glasses 
of  Madeira  or  port  at  dinner  and  three  bottles  of  claret  after'. 
Sherry  then  was  never  seen  on  a  gentleman's  table.  But  I  do 
not  mean  that  we  shall  indulge  so  deejdy  to-night,  especially.!? 
the  ladies  have,  as  yet,  made  no  movement  to  leave  the  room; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  the  distinguished  gentleman 
who  presides  over  us  is  a  prominent  member  of  the  Church 
Temperance  Society. 

I'hilip  Freneau's  earliest  poems  first  appeared  in  the  news- 
papers of  the  day,  as  in  fact  most  of  his  writings  did,  during  Mm 
whole  life.     Not  till  1786,  three  years  after  the  close  of  the 
Revolution,  which  his  war  lyrics   and  satires   on   the  British 
leaders,  civil  and  military,  had  greatly  airled,  were  they  collected 
and  jjublished,  in  a  single  small  volume  of  about  350  pages,  by 
Francis  Bailey,  a  printer  of  I'hiladelphia.     This  was  followed, 
two  years  later,  by  another,  but  smaller,  volume  of  "  Miscella- 
nies," in  verse  and  prose,  on  general  subjects,  from  the  same 
press.     The  first-mentioned  volume  also  included  a  few  poems 
composed  before  the  war.  beginning  with  "  The  Poetical  His- 
tory of  the  I'rophet  Jonah,"  a  metrical  version  or,  as  he  him- 
self termed  it,  "a  versified  paraphrase  "  of  that  subject,  in  four 
short  cantos  of  very  considerable  merit,  written  in  1768.     Two 
years  later,  in  1770,  Freneau  wrote  "The  Pyramids  of  Egypt," 
a  dram.atic  dialogue  in  blank  verse.     The  scene  is  Egypt,  the 
persons— a  Traveler,  a  Genius  and  Time.     It  contains  only  135 
lines,  and  is  one  of  the  most  striking  poems  ever  written  by  so 
young  a  man.     The  Traveler,  who  has  visited  Italy,  arrives  in 
Egypt,  meets  the  Genius,  and  asks  to  be  shown  the  Pyramids, 
saying  that  he  thought  'die  remnants  of  Rome,  he  had  lately 
seen,  were  unrivalled.     The  Genius  thus  answers  : 
"  Talk  ncn  of  Rome  !  before  they  lopt  a  bush 
From  the  seven  hills,  where  Rome,  Earth's  Empress,  stood. 


These  pyramids  were  old,  their  birthday  is 
Ueyond  tradition's  reach,  or  history." 

On  seeing  them,  the  Traveler  asks  how  many  generations, 
OMnarchies  and  empires, 

"  had  their  rise  and  fall 

While  these  remain,  and  promise  to  remain, 
1  ,       As  long  as  yonder  sun  shall  gild  their  summits, 
Or  moon,  or  stars,  their  wonted  circles  run." 

The  Genius  replies: 

"  The  time  shall  come 
ff*'      When  these  stupendous  piles  you  deem  immortal, 
A       Worn  out  with  age  shall  moulder  on  their  bases, 
'^       And  down,  down,  low  to  endless  ruin  verging, 
'^l       O'erwhelmed  by  dust,  be  seen  and  known  no  more." 
/.  ♦  ♦  *  ♦  Ht 

"  'Twas  on  this  plain  the  ancient  Memphis  stood. 
Her  walls  encircled  these  tall  pyramids, — 
But  where  is  Pharaoh's  palace,  where  the  domes 
Of  Egypt's  haughty  lords  ? — All,  all,  are  gone. 
And  like  the  phantom  snows  of  a  May  morning 
Left  not  a  vestige  to  discover  them  !  " 

To  the  Traveler's  further  question,  how  the  pyramids  were 
built,  the  Genius  says  : 

"  What  cannot  tyrants  do. 
When  they  have  subject  nations  to  their  will, 
And  the  world's  wealth,  to  gratify  ambition  ? 
Millions  of  slaves  beneath  their  labors  fainted. 
Who  here  were  doomed  to  toil  incessantly, 
And  years  elapsed  while  groaning  myriads  strove 
To  raise  this  mighty  tomb,  — and  but  to  hide 
The  worthless  bones  of  an  Egyptian  king." 

The  poem  closes  with  Time's  address  to  the  Traveler  in 
these  striking  lines : 

"  These  piles  are  not  immortal. 
This  earth,  with  all  its  balls  of  hills  and  mountains, 
Shall  perish  by  my  hand.     Then  how  can  these. 


8 

These  hoary -headed  pyramids  of  Egypt, 

That  are  but  dwindled  warts  upon  her  body, 

That  on  a  little,  little  spot  of  ground 

Extinguish  the  dull  radiance  of  the  sun, 

Be  jiroof  to  death  and  me  ?     Traveler,  return, 

There's  naught  but  God  immortal — He  alone 

Exists  secure,  when  Man,  and  Death,  and  Time, 

(Time  not  immortal,  but  a  fancied  point  in  the  vast  circle  of 

eternity) 
Are  swallowed  up,  and  like  the  pyramids, 
Leave  not  an  atom  for  their  monument." 

Is  not  this  true  poetry?  Is  it  not  extraordinary  as  the 
work  of  a  youth  of  eighteen  years?  But  one  other  American 
poet  ever  wrote  anything  to  compare  with  it  so  early  in  life. 
Bryant  wrote  at  nineteen  his  "  Thanatopsis,"  and  never  later 
did  he  surpass  that  great  poem,  although  it  contains  but  eighty- 
one  lines. 

Totally  dissimilar  as  these  two  poets  were,  in  almost  every 
characteristic,  physical  and  mental,  Frencau  being  as  warm  as 
Bryant  was  cold,  there  was  yet  a  singular  parallelism  in  their 
literary  careers.  Both  wore  educated  men,  both  college  gradu- 
ates, Frencau  of  Princeton,  Bryant  of  Williams  ;  both  wrote  as 
mere  youths,  and  wrote  then  as  men  of  twice  their  ages  might 
be  proud  to  write.  Both  studied  law  and  then  threw  it  aside. 
Both  became  hot  politicians  and  fierce  political  writers.  Both 
had  an  irresistible  desire  to  publish  newspapers,  and  both  be- 
came editors  of  their  own  papers,  and  editors  of  power.  Both 
wrote  vigorous,  nervous,  yet  polished,  prose.  Both  continued 
to  write  poetry  during  their  whole  lives.  Both  were  eminent 
as  translators  of  the  ancient  classics.  Both  made  purely  liter- 
ary ventures,  and  both  wrote  satires,  and  bitter  ones.  Both 
became  involved  in  personal  conflicts.  Both  wrote  strongly 
against  slavery.  Both  were  eminently  worshippers,  as  well  as 
poets,  of  nature.  Both,  as  their  lives  grew  apace,  left  the  press 
to  others  and  passed  their  latter  days  in  quiet  retirement. 
And  both  enjoyed  almost  the  longest  span  of  life  allotted  to 
man,  Freneau  dying  in  his  eighty-first,  and  Bryant  in  his  eighty- 
sixth  year. 


;.  Rut  here  the  parallel  ends,  for,  unlike  Bryant,  Freneau 
wrote  better  in  later  life  than  in  youth,  and  his  range  of  sub- 
tects  and  kinds  of  verse  were  wider  and  more  varied.  Bryant 
Oosscssed  great  application,  however,  while  Freneau  had 
little.  In  fact,  the  latter  was  too  versatile  for  his  own  good. 
;*.  Frencau's  poetry  may  be  considered  in  three  classes — war 
lyrics  and  satires,  poems  on  general  subjects  and  descriptions 
j^f  nature,  and  translations  from  the  classic  poets  and  those  of 
Italy  and  France,  with  a  few  which  do  not  strictly  fall  under 
jpither  of  these  heads.  They  vary  greatly  in  style  and  finish, 
<K)me  wanting  much  of  the  latter  quality.  Freneau  was  natur- 
i|lly  impulsive,  inclined  to  indolence  and  often  careless  ;  and 
l^is  verse  sometimes  reflects  his  moods.  He  seems  to  have 
■%ritten  just  as  the  incident  or  event  happened  which  formed 
his  theme,  or  as  the  idea  he  expressed  occurred  to  him.  Like 
many  men  of  active  intellect  and  quick  perceptions,  as  I  have 
laid,  he  lacked  application.  Content  to  write  for  the  hour,  and 
'Satisfied  if  the  effect  or  object  aimed  at  was  secured,  he  little 
fegarded  the  future  of  the  children  of  his  brain.  Hence  he 
has  left  us  no  great  narrative  poem  and  no  epic. 

His  verse  is  wonderfi'.'  for  its  case,  simplicity,  humor,  great 

command  of  language  .'.ud  delicacy  of  handling.     Except  Dry- 

v^den  and  Byron  no  poet  of  America  or  England  has  shown  him- 

iself  a  greater  master  of  English  or  of  rhyme.     The  luxuriance 

,of  his  stanzas  is  sometimes  amazing.     Only  to  the  temporary 

inature  of  the  subjects  of  most  of  his  verse,  especially  of  his 

satires,  can    be  ascribed  the   desuetude  into  which  his  poems 

have  fallen. 

In  vigor,  sentiment,  playfulness,  and  humor,  many  of  them 
cannot  be  surpassed,  and  their  beauties  of  form  and  expression 
are  as  great  now  as  when  they  were  first  given  to  the  world. 

But  Freneau  possessed  other  and  deeper  poetic  gifts.  We 
have  all  wondered  at  and  admired  the  poems  of  that  strange 
son  of  genius  of  our  day,  the  late  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  Yet  the 
strange  power  of  that  extraordinary  man  existed  also  in  the 
earlier  poet.  His  "  House  of  Night — A  Vision  "  prefigured 
the  wondrous  conceptions  of  the  author  of  "  The  Raven." 
Though  not  at  all  alike,  there  is  in  the  supernatural  weirdness 


iO 

of  each  a  similarity.  Frcncau's  dreamer,  wandering  at  mid- 
night  in  a  dark  wood,  comes  upon  a  noble  dome.  Entering 
and  ascending,  he  hears  "  a  hollow  voice  of  loud  lament  "  from 
out  a  vaulted  chamber,  which  proves  to  be  that  of  Death,  per- 
sonified in  human  form,  stretched  on  his  dying  bed.  He  is 
attended  by  the  castle's  lord,  who  has  just  suffered  a  heavy 
affliction,  and  who,  in  obedience  to  the  divine  precept,  "  If 
thine  enemy  hunger  feed  him,  if  he  thirst  give  him  drink," 
tries  to  assuage  his  sufferings,  but  at  the  same  time  tells  him 
that  his  end  is  inevitable.  Death  gives  him  certain  directions, 
orders  his  own  burial,  and  dies  in  the  greatest  agony.  Every- 
thing is  faithfully  carried  out.  The  vision  passes  away,  the 
dreamer  wakes,  and  the  poem  closes  with  his  reflections  on 
death  and  what  it  really  is.  The  death  of  Death  is  thus 
described  : 

"  And  from  within,  the  howls  of  Death  I  heard, 

Cursing  the  dismal  night  that  gave  him  birth, 
]  )amning  his  ancient  sire  and  mother  sin, 

Wno  at  the  gates  of  hell,  accursed,  brought  liim  forth. 

*  *  "K  *  * 

"  Oft  his  pale  breast,  with  cruel  hands  he  smote. 
And  tearing  from  his  limbs  a  winding  sheet, 
Roared  to  the  black  skies,  while  the  woods  around, 
As  wicked  as  himself,  his  words  repeat. 

*  Thrice  tow'rd  the  skies  his  meagre  arms  he  rear'd. 
Invoked  all  hell  and  thunders  on  his  head. 
Bid  lightnings  fly,  earth  yawn,  and  tempests  roar, 
And  the  sea  wrap  him  in  its  oozy  bed. 

*  *  »  *  « 

"  And  now  the  phantom  Death 
Gave  his  last  groans  in  horror  and  despair. 
'  All  iiell  demands  me  hence,'  he  said,  and  threw 
The  red  lamp  hissing  through  the  midnight  air." 

Then  follows  a  most  vivid  description  of  the  burial.  The 
vision  ends,  the  dreamer  awakes,  and  the  poem  closes  with 
these  reflections : 


II 

"  What  is  this  Death,  ye  deep-read  sophists,  say  ? 
Death  is  no  more  than  one  unceasing  change  ; 
New  forms  arise  while  other  forms  decay, 
Yet  all  is  Life  throughout  creation's  range. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  Hills  sink  to  plains,  and  man  returns  to  dust. 
That  dust  supports  a  reptile  or  a  flower  ; 
Each  changeful  atom  by  some  other  nurs'd, 
Takes  some  new  form,  to  perish  in  an  hour." 

'l  Another  and  a  very  different  gift  which  Freneau  possessed 
hi  an  extraordinary  degree  was  his  power  of  invective.  In  this, 
Some  of  his  satires  rival  the  "  Absalom  and  Achitophcl,"  and 
ttie  "  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  "  in  vigor,  as  well  as 
In  the  torrent-like  flow  of  the  verse. 

Listen  to  these  lines  upon  an  opponent  who  had  attacked 
him  in  abusive  rhyme,  and  whom,  under  an  odd  name,  he  has 
jttiraortalizcd  : 

"  Hail,  great  MacSwtggen  !  foe  to  honest  fame, 
Patron  of  dunces  and  thyself  the  same. 
You  dream  of  conquest, — tell  me  how  or  whence, 
Act  like  a  man,  and  combat  me  with  sense. 

*  *  *  *  * 

'■  "  Clad  in  the  garb  of  sacred  sanctity, 

What  madness  prompts  thee  to  invent  a  lie  ? 
Thou  base  defender  of  a  wretched  crew, 
Thy  tongue  let  loose  on  those  you  never  knew. 
The  human  spirit  with  the  brutal  joined, 
The  imps  of  Orcus  in  thy  breast  combined  ; 
The  genius  barren,  and  the  wicked  heart, 
Prepared  to  take  each  trifling  scoundrel's  part  ; 
The  turn'd  up  nose,  the  monkey's  foolish  face, 
The  scorn  of  reason,  and  your  sire's  disgrace. 
Assist  me,  gods,  to  drive  this  dog  of  rhime 
Back  to  the  torments  of  his  native  clime. 
Where  dulness  mingles  with  her  native  earth." 

This  is  certainly  equal  to  Dryden,  yet  Freneau  wrote  it 
when  only  twenty-three. 

His  war  lyrics  and  satires  are  models  of  their  kind,  easy, 


12 

spirited,  pungent,  and  as  humorous  in  describing  persons  as 
keen  in  depicting  their  characteristics.  A  line,  an  epithet  or 
a  verse  occasionally  occurs,  too  coarse  for  good  taste,  but  his 
sins  of  this  kind  arc  exceedingly  few.  His  thorough  personal 
knowledge  of  the  period  in  which  he  lived,  and  of  the  men,  and 
the  politics  in  which  he  took  part,  gave  him  great  advantages, 
of  which  he  was  by  no  means  slow  to  profit. 

The  two  famous  New  York  ])rintcrs  of  the  Revolutionary 
era  have  never  been  so  well  described  as  by  Frencau,  severe  as 
he  was  upon  both.  His  pen  portraits  of  James  Rivington  and 
Hugh  Gaine  are  well-nigh  perfect.  The  former,  an  English- 
man by  birth,  who  began  publishing  a  paper  in  New  York  in 
1773,  Freneau  wrote  of  as  a  fierce  Tory  ;  but  occasionally  he 
seems  to  have  had  a  vague  suspicion  of  what  is  now  known  to 
be  the  fact,  that  he  was,  or  rather  became,  a  spy  for  Washing- 
ton. Certainly  deception  incarnate  was  never  painted  with 
greater  force  than  in  Freneau's  characterizations  of  Rivington. 

As  to  Gaine  he  knew  him  well,  and  was  familiar  with  his 
long  career  in  New  York  before,  during,  and  after,  the  Revolu- 
tion. A  Belfast  Irishman,  he  printed  a  paper  in  New  York 
from  1752  to  about  1786.  Favoring  the  opposition  to  the 
British  Ministry  in  the  early  stages  of  the  disi)ute,  but  support- 
ing them  Inter,  on  the  capture  of  New  York  by  Sir  William 
Howe,  Gaine  fled  to  Newark,  New  Jersey,  but  in  a  few  months 
returned,  resumed  the  publication  of  his  paper,  maintained  it 
during  the  English  occupation,  and  at  its  close,  taking  the  royal 
arms  from  its  heading,  and  removing  the  Crown  from  beside 
the  Bible  on  his  ofifice  sign,  in  Hanover  Square,  continued  the 
paper,  as  Rivington  did  his,  both  as  good  Republican  sheets. 
Nevertheless,  till  his  death  in  the  early  part  of  this  century  he 
was  considered  a  personally  honest  man. 

In  a  poem  in  the  form  of  "A  Letter  to  the  Whigs  of  New 
York,"  supposed  to  be  written  by  Rivington,  in  December, 
1783,  just  after  the  evacuation,  Frencau  makes  him  say: 

"  'Twas  a  chaiue,  a  mere  chance,  that  your  arms  gain'd  the  day, 
'Twas  a  chance  that  the  Britons  so  soon  went  away, 
To  chance  by  their  leaders  the  nation  is  cast, 
And  chance  to  perdition  will  send  them  at  last. 


1 


13 

"  Now  because  I  remain  when  the  puppies  are  gone, 
You  would  willingly  see  me  hanged,  quartered,  and  drawn, 
Though  I  think  I  have  logic  sufficient  to  prove, 
That  the  chance  of  my  stay  is  a  proof  of  my  love. 

"  *  T*  1*  'P 

"  And  therefore  excuse  me  for  printmg  some  lays, 
An  ode,  or  a  sonnet,  in  Washington's  praise. 

"  His  jirudence  alone  has  preserved  your  dominions, 
This  bravest  and  boldest  of  all  the  V^irginians ! 
And  when  he  has  gone, — I  pronounce  it  with  pain, 
We  scarcely  shall  meet  with  his  equal  again." 

In  the  second  part  of  this  same  poetical  letter,  occur  these 
lines : 

"  If  you  stood  my  attacks  I  have  nothing  to  say, 
I  fought  like  the  Swiss  for  the  sake  of  my  pay, 
Eut  while  I  was  proving  your  fabric  unsound. 
Our  vessel  miss'd  stays,  and  we  all  went  aground. 

"  Thus  ended  in  ruin  what  madmen  begun, 
And  thus  was  our  nation  disgraced  and  undone. 

«  :|(  «  iH  « 

"  You  pretend  I  have  suffered  no  loss  in  the  cause, 
And  have  therefore  no  right  to  partake  of  your  laws. 
Some  people  love  talking — I  find  to  my  cost, 
I  too  am  a  loser, — my  character's  lost !  " 

At  the  end  of  the  letter  he  mentions  a  visit  from  the  ghost 
of  Gen.  Robertson,  the  last  British  governor,  who  advises  him 
to  go  to  Nova  Scotia,  "  which,"  he  tells  the  Whigs, — 

"  I  surely  shall  do  if  you  push  me  too  hard, 
And  so  I  remain,  with  eternal  regard, 
James  Rivi/igton,  printer  of  late  to  the  King, 
Hut  now  a  republican  under  your  wing — 
Let  him  stand  where  he  is,  don't  push  him  down  hill, 
And  he'll  turn  a  true  blue  skin  or  just  what  you  will." 

Another  short  poem  styled  "Truth  Anticipated  "  ends  with 
a  brief  keen  epitaph  upon  Rivington,  in  these  witty  lines: 


14 

"  Here  /irs  a  King's  Printer,  we  needn't  say  who: 
There  is  reason  to  think  he  tells  what  is  true  : 
But  if  he  /ii-s  here,  'tis  not  overstrange, 
His  present  position  is  but  a  small  change, 
So  reader,  pass  on — 'tis  a  folly  to  sigh, 
For  all  his  life  long  he  did  little  but  /h\" 

Gaine,  Frcncau  treated  in  a  little  different  way,  perhaps  in- 
duced by  the  fact  that  in  his  paper  some  of  his  earlier  poems 
first  saw  the  li|^ht.  In  a  versified  pctitioti  to  the  Senate  of 
New  York,  in  1783,  for  recognition,  he  makes  Gainc  give  this 
account  of  himself,  and  in  it  incidentally  expresses  his  own  idea 
of  his  own  powers. 

*'  I  first  was  a  whig  with  an  honest  intent, 
Not  a  fellow  among  them  talk'd  louder  or  bolder, 
\Vith  his  sword  by  his  side,  or  his  gun  on  his  shoulder  ; 
Yes,  I  was  a  whig,  and  a  whig  from  my  heart, 
But  still  from  Britain  was  unwilling  to  part, 
I  knew  to  oppose  her  was  foolish  nnd  vain, 
I  knew  she  would  turn  and  embrace  us  again, 
And  make  us  as  happy  as  happy  could  be. 
By  renewing  the  era  of  mild  sixty-three  ; 
And  yet  like  a  cruel  undutiful  son, 
Who  evil  returns  for  the  good  to  be  done, 
To  gain  a  mere  tride,— a  shilling  or  so, 
I  printed  some  treason  for  Philip  Freneau, 
Some  damnable  poems  rellecting  on  C»age, 
The  King  and  his  Council,  and  writ  with  such  rage, 
So  full  of  invective,  and  loaded  with  spleen. 
So  pointedly  sharp,  and  so  hellishly  keen. 
That,  at  least  in  the  judgment  of  iialf  our  wise  men, 
Alecto  herself  made  the  nib  to  his  pen." 

It  is  in  this  poem  that  there  occurs  an  exceedingly  fine 
image— one  of  the  striking  creations  of  a  true  poet. 

In  describing  the  general  fiight  of  inhabitants  from  New 
York,  which  followed  the  defeat  of  Washington  at  Brooklyn, 
and  Game's  escape  on  horseback  to  New  Jersey  with  the  rest, 
he  says : 


15 

"To  Newark  I  Iiaste.ied,  but  trouble  and  care, 
Got  up  oil  the  crupper  and  folUnved  me  there." 

In  1780,  Frcncau  sailed  from  Pliiladclpliia,  in  the  letter  of 
marque  Aurora,  for  the  West  Indies,  but  was  captured  off  the 
rapes  of  the  Delaware  by  the  British  friji[ate  Iris,  and  sent  to 
New  York,  a  prisoner  of  war,  where  he  was  confined  on  board 
the  Scorpion  prison  ship,  and  falling  ill  he  was  transferred  to  a 
hospital  vessel.  This  incident  and  his  severe  treatment  lie  has 
set  forth  in  a  poem  in  three  brief,  spirited  cantos  entitled,  "  The 
British  Prison  Ship."     His  destination  is  first  described : 

"  those  isles  where  endless  summer  reigns. 
Fair  fruits,  gay  blossoms,  and  enamelled  plains, 
Where  sloping  lawns  the  roving  swain  invite, 
And  the  cool  morn  succeeds  the  breezy  night, 
Where  each  glad  day  a  heaven  unclouded  brings. 
And  sky-topt  mountains  teem  with  golden  springs." 

The  last  broadside  of  the  Iris'  guns  which  effects  the  cap- 
ture, is  thus  given : 

*'  Another  blast  as  fatal  in  its  aim, 
Wing'd  by  destruction,  through  our  rigging  came 
And,  whistling  tunes  from  hell  upon  its  way, 
Shrouds,  stays,  and  braces,  tore  at  once  away, 
Sails,  blocks,  and  oars,  in  scattered  fragments  fly — 
Their  softest  language  was,  submit  or  die." 

The  sufferings  of  the  prisoners  from   the  brutalities  of  the 
[guards,  starvation  and  thirst,  and  his  resulting  illness  and  trans- 
[fer  to  the  hospital  ship,  and  its  surgeon,  are  most  vividly  por- 
trayed, as  well  as  the  latter's  treatment,  which  is  set  forth  in 
[these  biting  words : 

"He  drench 'd  us  well  with  bitter  draughts,  'tis  true. 
Nostrums  from  hell,  and  cortex  from  Peru, — ■ 
Some  with  his  pills  he  sent  to  Pluto's  reign, 
And  some  he  blistered  with  his  flies  of  Spain  ; 
His  cream  of  tartar  walked  its  deadly  round, 
Till  the  lean  patient  at  the  potion  frown'd, 
And  swore  that  hemlock,  death,  or  what  you  will. 
Were  nonsense  to  the  drugs  that  stuff'd  his  bill." 


i6 

Ho  thus  describes  the  daily  deaths  and  burials  on  the  Long 
Island  shore  at  the  Wallabnut : 

'•  By  feeble  hands  the  shallow  graves  were  made, 
No  stone  memoiials  o'er  the  corpses  laid  ; 
In  barren  sands,  anil  far  from  home,  tliey  lie. 
No  friend  to  shed  a  tear  when  passing  by  ; 
O'er  the  mean  tombs  insulting  Britons  tread, 
Spurn  at  the  sand,  and  curse  the  rebel  dead." 

An  appeal  then  follows  to  Americans  to 

"  Rouse  from  your  sleep,  and  crush  the  thievish  band, 
Defeat,  destroy,  and  sweep  them  from  the  land  ;  " 

and  the  poem  closes  with  this  prediction  of  final  defeat  to  the 
British  : 

"  The  years  approach  that  shall  to  ruin  bring 
Your  lords,  your  chiefs,  your  miscreant  of  a  King, 
Whose  murderous  acts  shall  stamp  his  name  accurs'd. 
And  his  last  triumphs  more  than  damn  his  first." 

The  whole  poem  of  about  700  lines  was  intended  to  rouse 
up  American  feeling,  then — in  1780— excessively  dejjressed; 
and  the  extracts  that  have  been  given  will  show  Frcneau's 
power  to  arrest  public  attention,  as  well  as  the  variety,  beauty 
and  force  of  different  characteristics  of  his  verse. 

Of  course  the  poem  is  exaggerated  in  its  statements,  but  in 
this  the  skill  of  the  true  poet  shows  itself,  for  in  all  appeals 
of  this  kind,  exaggeration  is  a  necessity  if  an  effect  is  to  ba  pro- 
duced—just as  the  sculptor  is  obliged  to  make  the  figure  of  his 
hero  larger  than  life,  if  his  statue  is  to  be  impressive. 

It  was  believed  by  the  ancients  that  to  poets  was  given  the 
power  of  foretelling  future  events,  and  the  earliest  name  by 
which  the  Romans  called  them  was  z'atcs,  which  primarily  sig- 
nifies a  prophet,  a  seer.  This  idea,  perhaps  not  altogether 
fanciful,  was,  before  their  time,  held  by  the  Greeks  in  connec- 
tion with  their  religion,  for  in  those  old  days  priests  were  poets 
and  poets  were  priests. 

No   poet   ever   possessed  this  prophetic   gift   in  a  greater 


17 

degree  than  Philip  Frcncau.      In  the  vey  dialogue  he  wrote 
lor  his  commencement  piece,  in  1771,  orcur  these  lines: 

— "  I  see,  I  see 
Freedom's  established  reign  ;  cities  and  men. 
Numerous  as  the  sands  upon  the  ocean  shore, 
And  empires  rising  where  the  sun  descends ! 
The  Ohio  soon  shall  glide  by  many  a  town 
Of  note  ;  and  where  the  Mississip[)i's  stream, 
By  forests  shaded,  now  runs  weeping  on, 
Nations  shall  grow,  and  States,  not  less  in  fame 
Than  Orcece  and  Rf)me  of  old  !     We  too  shall  boast 
Our  Scijjios,  Solons,  Catos,  sages,  chiefs. 
That  in  the  womb  of  time  yet  dormant  lie, 
Waiting  the  joyous  hour  of  life  and  light. 
O,  snatch  me  hence,  ye  muses,  to  those  days 
When  through  the  veil  of  dark  anti(iuity, 
Our  sons  shall  hear  of  us  as  things  remote 
That  blossom'd  in  the  morn  of  days — Alas  ! 
How  could  I  weep  that  we  were  born  so  soon. 
Just  in  the  dawning  of  these  mighty  times, 
Whose  scenes  are  painting  for  eternity." 

In  "  The  Power  of  Fancy,"  a  brilliant  poem,  beginning 

"  Wakeful,  vagrant,  restless,  thing, 
Ever  wandering  on  the  wing," 

ic  describes   in  flowing  verse  how  Fancy  leads  him   through 
v^Various  famed  places   in  Europe  and  Asia   to  an  isle  of  the 
■'Indian  seas,  and  then  exclaims: 

"  Bear  me  from  that  distant  strand 
Over  ocean,  over  land 
To  California's  golden  shore, — 
Fancy  stop,  and  rove  no  more. " 

This  was  written  in  1770,  seventy-eight  years  before  the 
discovery  of  gold  in  the  race-way  of  the  famous  mill  of  Colonel 
Sutter,  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacramento. 

Again,  in  September,  1775,  appeared  in  New  York  one  of 
those  "  damnable  poems  reflecting  on  Gage  "  which  have  already 
been  mentioned,  in  two  parts.  The  first  is  an  imaginary  dis- 
cussion of  a  council  of  war  held   by  Gage  in  Boston,  in  which 


18 

Burgoyne,  Percy,  Howe  and  Wallace  take  part  and  decide  on 
a  plan  of  operations.  The  second  is  a  bold  protest,  an  appeal 
to  Americans  to  resist  Britain's  claims,  containing  this  fine 
passage : 

"The  time  shall  come  when  strangers  rule  no  more, 
Nor  cruel  mandates  vex  from  Britain's  shore, 
«  *  *  «  * 

"  When  mighty  towns  shall  flourish  free,  and  great, 
Vast  their  dominion,  opulent  their  state, 
When  one  vast  cultivated  region  tcemc 
From  ocean's  side  to  Mississippi's  streams. 
While  each  enjoys  his  vine-tree's  peaceful  shade, 
And  even  the  meanest  has  no  foe  to  dread." 

This  last  poem  is  very  remarkable  for  another  and  a  very  dif- 
ferent subject.  It  contains  a  most  striking  and  effective  proof 
of  a  fact  in  Revolutionary  history,  which  it  is  the  modern 
fashion  for  writers  and  orators  on  that  subject,  of  every  dej^rcc, 
to  conceal,  i[;nore  or  slur  over.  That  fact  is,  that  the  Revo- 
lutionary War  was  )iot  begun  to  obtain  independence,  but  kw 
begun  to  obtain  those  rights  of  Englishmen  which  all  Ameri- 
cans  claimed  as  their  birthright,  and  which  the  British  govern- 
ment wickedly  denied  them. 

Its  closing  stanza  is  this: 

"  Long  may  Britannia  rule  our  hearts  again. 
Rule,  as  she  ruled,  in  (Icorge  the  Second's  reign  ; 
May  ages  hence  her  growing  grandeur  see. 
And  she  be  glorious— but  ourselves  as  free." 

And  this,  be  it  remembered,  was  written  six  months  after 
Bunker's  Hill. 

Perhaps  the  finest  of  Frcneau's  war  lyrics  is  his  ode  "  To 
the  memory  of  the  brave  Americans  who  fell  at  Rutaw 
Sprmgs."  It  consists  of  but  eight  stanzas  of  four  lines  each. 
For  melody,  spirit,  f^re  and  feeling,  it  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been 
surpassed.  This  is  the  poem  of  which  Mr.  Henry  Brevoort 
tells  us  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  asked  him  the  author's  name, 
saying  he  had  met  it  in  a  magazine,  had  it  by  heart,  and  knew 
It  was  American.     On  being  told  it  was  Frencau's,  Scott  said. 


19 

"  It  was  as  fine  a  thinR  of  the  kind  as  there  was  in  the  lan- 
Rua^c."  And  he  used  a  line  from  it  in  his  famous  apostrophe 
to  the  Duke  of  Ikunswick,  in  the  introduction  to  the  third 
canto  of  Marmion. 

Freneau's  fifiii  verse  is  this: 

"They  saw  their  injur'd  country's  woe; 
The  flaming  town,  the  wasted  field  ; 
They  rushed  to  meet  the  insuhing  foe  ; 
They  took  the  spear,  l)ut  left  the  shield." 

Scott  wrote,  improving  the  line  by  using  a  stronger  verb : 

*'  Lamented  chief,  not  thine  the  power 
To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour. 
When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  fit-Id, 
And  snatched  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield." 

One  of  the  inost  delicate  and  tender  of  Freneau's  poems 
is  that  entitled,  "  Lines  on  Visiting  an  Old  Indian  liurying- 
(iround,"  and  describing  his  visions  while  within  its  ancient 
precincts  at  night : 

"  There,  oft  a  restless  In«lian  Queen 
(Pale  Marion  with  her  braided  liair). 
And  many  a  barbarous  form,  is  seen 
To  chide  the  man  that  lingers  there." 

"By  midnight  moons,  o'er  moistening  dews, 
In  vestments  for  the  chace  arrayed, 
The  hunter  still  the  deer  pursues, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade." 

This  last  line,  beautiful,  and  characterized  by  the  fine  senti- 
ment of  Frencau,  so  struck  Thomas  Campbell  that  he  placed 
it,  unchanged,  in  a  verse  of  his  famous  poem  of  O'Conor's 
Child,  thus  describing  her  dead  lover  as  she  sees  him  in  spirit, 
while  watching  his  grave  : 

"  He  comes,  and  makes  her  glad  ; 

Now  on  the  grass  green  turf  he  sits, 
His  tasseled  horn  beside  him  laid  ; 

Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chace  he  flies, 
The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade." 


20 

lUit,  sorry  am  I  to  say,  ncitlicr  of  these  poets  ever  acknowl- 
ed^eil  their  iiulebtechiess  to  rhihp  I'reneaii. 

Frcneau'.s  originality  was  very  marked.  He  followed  not 
in  the  steps  o(  Dryilen,  nor  any  other  of  the  poets  of  the 
Augustan  a^e ;  nor  like  hi.s  contemporaries.  Trumbull  and 
liarlow.  in  those  of  Voun^;  and  I'ope.  Not  oidy  did  he  not 
follow  classic  example,  but  he  struck  out  a  style  of  his  own. 
Free,  clear  and  expressive,  he  cast  aside  the  trammels  of  the 
stately  verse  in  which  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries 
delij^hted.and  wrote  just  as  he  seems  to  have  felt,  and  in  wlvit- 
ever  way  he  deemed  mo>t  appropriate  to  his  subject. 
Althouj^h  careless  in  his  rhymes,  he  was,  nevertheless,  alw.iys 
effective. 

So  long  was  his  life  that  he  wrote  some  of  his  finest  poems 
after  the  advent  of  that  brilliant  galaxy  of  poets,  who  burst 
forth  in  the  early  part  of  this  ninetrenth  century,  l^ut  nut  a 
trace  of  Mt)ore,  Southey,  Campbell,  Rogers,  Scott.  Words- 
worth or  Hyron,  is  to  be  found  in  the  last  two  small  volumes 
of  his  poems  which  he  gave  to  the  world  in  1815. 

Frenoau's  prose  w  ritings  were  of  two  kinds,  brief  essays  on 
many  subjects  after  the  manner  of  the  Spcchitor  and  the  Tat- 
Icr;  and  travels  and  reports  of  an  imaginary  character,  related 
and  made  to  their  kings  by  an  inhabitant  of  Otaheite,  and  a 
Creek  Indian,  after  their  return  from  civilized   lands,  after  the 
example  of  Voltaire.    To  these  may  be  added  his  political  dis- 
quisitions and   translations    from    French    historical    writers. 
The  best  of  the  former  were  written  over  the   pen-name  of 
"Robert  Slender."     All  are  pleasing,    witty,  humorous,  easy 
and  agreeable,  and  show  great  and  close  power  of  observation. 
His  political  writings,  action  and  opinions,  are  a  most  inter- 
estmg    theme,    but    they    would    recpiire    a    full    essay    to    be 
adequately  presented.     A  strong  Democrat,  a  believer  in  Jef- 
ferson,  and  like  so  many  men  of  his  day,  carried  away  by  the 
F  rench  Revolution,  the  ardor  of  his  nature  and  the  firmness 
of  his  opmions.  with  the  vigor  and  terseness  of  his  style,  made 
him  an  adversary  to  be  feared. 

The  quarrel  between  Hamilton  and  Jefferson,  growing  out 
01  bis  editmg  a  newspaper  in  the  interest  of  the  latter,  while 


I 


21 


f  holtliii}?  the  place  of  French  translator  under  the  government, 
.  in  wiiich  he  attacked  the  financial  policy  of  the  former,  during 
;  Washin^'ton's  first  administration,  and  which  so  greatly  an- 
■  noycd  the  great  I'resident,  is  a  matter  of  history.  Freneau  was 
as  perfectly  sincere  and  honest  in  his  political  opinions  as  he 
was  free  and  outspoken  in  their  expression.  Leaving  politics 
and  the  party  press  after  a  few  years,  he  resumed  his  sea  life 
about  the  year  i8(X),  and  l)ecaine  a<;ain  engaged  in  voyages  and 
mercantile  ventures,  from  wliich  facts  he  is  often  referred  to  as 
"Captain  Treneau."  To  this  period  are  to  be  ascribed  some 
of  his  finest  and  most  perfect  descriptions  of  nature,  especially 
of  nature  in  the  troj)ics.  Two  poems,  one  styled  "  The  Ik-auties 
of  Santa  Cruz,"  and  the  other  descriptive  of  the  shores  of  Caro- 
lina and  Charleston,  are  instinct  with  true  poetic  fire.  His  versi- 
fied translations  from  the  Latin  show  how  well  his  college  days 
wore  spent,  and  how  late  in  life  he  kept  up  his  classic  studies. 
No  finer  rendition  of  the  fifteenth  ode  of  the  first  book  of 
Horace,  Nereus's  prophecy  of  the  destruction  of  Troy,  than 
I'reneau's  exists;  while  his  translation  of  Gray's  famous  "  Ode 
written  at  the  Grande  Chartreuse,"  is  as  striking  and  beautiful 
as  the  original  itself. 

Such  was  the  poetry  of  thi?  Huguenot  patriot  of  the  Revo- 
lution. Horn  eight  years  before  the  death  of  George  the  Sec- 
ond, and  living  far  into  the  presidency  of  the  seventh  ruler  of 
the  United  States,  General  Andrew  Jackson,  Philip  Freneau 
is  the  only  poet  whose  ringing  verse  roused  alike  the  hearts, 
and  nerved  the  arms,  of  two  generations  of  Americans  against 
Lngland.  He  immortalized  alike  the  successes  of  the  Revolu- 
tion and  those  of  tiie  war  of  1S12.  He  sang,  with  equal  spirit, 
force  and  fire,  the  glory  of  Trenton  and  the  triumph  of  Chip- 
pewa, the  conqueror  of  Yorktown  and  the  victor  of  Niagara. 
He  sang,  too,  the  heroic  battles  of  Paul  Jones  on  the  German 
ocean,  and  those  of  Perry  and  McDonough  on  the  waves  of 
Erie  and  the  waters  of  Champlain  ;  and  also,  but  in  sadder 
strains,  the  fate  of  AndriJ  and  the  death  of  Ross. 


